


Backlash

by eirabach



Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Fishing Metaphors, Gen, Yup you read that right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 11:42:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25849009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eirabach/pseuds/eirabach
Summary: Gordon + Used as Bait for Bad Things Happen Bingo on tumblr.
Comments: 54
Kudos: 37





	1. Chapter 1

Scott had started it. Scott always does.

Somewhere around third grade, at just about the point that people had begun to _notice_ Gordon for good or for ill, Scott had dragged him off to some flooded old mine basin somewhere, chucked his spindley little body straight in and said,

“ _C’mon then, fish kid. Show me what you got._ ”

It’s a weird memory. Most of Gordon’s are, really, when you think about it. He recalls the instant of terror as he’d hung in midair, the delighted howls of the gang of teenagers smoking at the water’s edge, the immediate, glorious peace of entry and the icy, violent cold.

He remembers the scrapes left on his knees after a pale-faced Scott had dragged him out over the sharp rocks, and how he’d held him, all dripping and shivery, by the wrist as their mother’s car had screeched to a dusty halt, the teenagers bolting into hiding as an actual adult had thrown open the car door and _screamed_ at Scott.

He remembers her face, puce with fury, little Alan tucked tight to her hip with his thumb in his mouth and --

_Fish kid._

Mainly, he remembers how much he’d liked that. Something for himself, something all his own, and bestowed on him from on high by the biggest of big brothers -- wow. It’d had been seriously -- _wow_.

He just -- he’d kinda hoped he might grow up to be something a bit cooler than a _minnow_ , that’s all.

Four creaks and shudders around him, the pressure out here far, far more intense than anywhere but the very deepest depths she’s designed to take, and his fingers twitch to seize back control of her, to _swim_ , but he can’t, and she can’t, and he reckons --

“ _Gordon? Are you listening_?”

It doesn’t matter what he reckons.

“Yeah, yeah I’m here,” he says, as though he could be anywhere _else_ , “what’s the ETA on the big ol’ tuna fish anyway?”

Virgil scoffs, loud enough that Gordon can only imagine he’s got his face practically pressed up against the comm. “ _Tuna fish? We’re working with sharks here, Gordon._ ”

Four sways, swinging like a pendulum as Alan struggles to hold steady against a planet that wants to drag them both down. Whirlpools of thick, gaseous clouds swirl beneath Gordon’s feet, above his head.

“Sharks are our friends,” he grumbles, stomach protesting his last meal as Alan swears violently over the secondary comm. “Sharks do _not_ undertake dangerous and illegal space mining operations. Did you learn _nothing_ from all those Shark Week rewatches?”

“ _I learned you’d never get me in one of those cages_ ,” Virgil says, then, with a pause that sounds just like a wince. “ _I didn’t mean_ \--”

“ _Six minutes_.” Scott’s voice is harsh, sharp. A commander's voice, but Gordon wonders if perhaps there’s something of the memory of that day at the mine lingering behind the snappishness. 

Scott’s thrown him in, again, although it’s Alan who’s cast the line, and this time it’s Alan who’ll have to reel him in.

No pressure, then.

“FAB, control,” Gordon says, voice as bright as he can manage through the whining of metal and the thudding pain that’s developing behind his eyes. 

“ _FAB, control_ ,” Alan copies, and it’s almost mocking. Almost unkind. “ _I’ll be lucky if I can keep you up for six seconds_!”

There’s a very good reason the comm line between the two of them is private.

“Good job I’m lucky then,” he grumbles, releasing the clasp on his helmet and pulling it off just to scrub at his aching eyes. “Not that I particularly _feel_ it right now. I thought that rocket of yours had stabilizing thrusters?”

Alan’s voice is barely more than a hiss. “It _does_.”

“ _Five minutes._ ”

Gordon doesn’t even bother acknowledging, instead grabbing hold of the controls for Four’s grappling arms and squinting out into the morass. The great red eye of Jupiter’s monstrous eternal storm is seething somewhere beneath him, and between him and it is a ship that absolutely should not, _cannot_ be there. Except apparently there’s profit in the minerals thrown up by the planet’s constant temper tantrum, and absolutely _nothing_ gets between Langstrom Fischler and profit.

Except, apparently, Gordon Tracy. 

Hanging from the end of a very long high tensile fishing line.

Everybody’s gotta have a hobby. Shame this isn't his.

“ _Four._ ”

“Three, Two, One,” Gordon intones. “Have I mentioned I hate this yet?”

“ _Only fifty times._ ” Gordon can hear the strain in Alan’s voice as another current sends Four hurtling to port, the world outside twisting and blurring until Gordon’s forced to bite his own lip to keep from meeting last night’s travel rations in reverse. 

“Jesus, Al!”

“ _orry, sorry_!”

Gordon doesn’t really understand what happens next, only that there’s a huge, terrible _clang_ of metal on metal as he’s thrown from the seat, his shoulders wrenching as he struggles to keep his grip on the controls.

“ _Gordon, you should have visual!_ ”

“Yeah, you think?!”

Four’s windows are filled with a huge, pockmarked sheet of red metal, the other ship so large and so close, _so close_ , that Gordon can’t do much other than frantically twist his wrists and pray that the grasping arms manage to grab hold of _something_.

“Alan!” There’s the thud of Four attaching and a brief flicker of relief before -- Jesus, is someone _screaming_?

“ _Let go! Gordon! Thunderbird Four! Let it_ go!”

“Now? No way! Alan pull us up!”

“ _Gordon_!”

He grits his teeth, feet slipping against the plexiglass as he heaves back on the controls with all his might and how big _is_ this thing anyway? 

“Alan!”

The screaming grows louder, a horrible high pitched shriek that echoes through his pounding skull, makes his eyes water. Something else red, something viscous, drip drip drips onto the ground, brighter than the background, blurring in and out of focus as he squints at it. _Important_ , he thinks. _That’s important_. 

Something’s screaming, and something’s… bleeding?

Huh.

“ _Gordon, I swear to Dad if you don’t let go this_ instant _I’ll --_ ”

And Scott, Scott’s _almost_ screaming, but all his words are blurring into that terrible overwhelming roar. _Important_ . _Something’s important_. 

But Gordon -- Gordon never finds out what.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Each prompt will be 1k or less I said, hahahaha fml. Part two of... Three. Probably. Maybe.

Alan is screaming.

Internally.

Mostly.

“Absolute piece of -- John! Thunderbird Five, I need a remote assist! John are you _listening_?”

“I’m listening. Just give me a second.” John’s hologram flickers into life above the altimeter, his movements quick and jerky and looking as close to frazzled as John ever gets, but Alan’s trying to wrestle some kinda behemoth out of Jupiter’s atmosphere and he doesn’t really have _time_ for this. “Your second’s up! This thing -- what the hell _is_ this thing?!”

“I don’t know.” It’s gritted out from between clenched teeth. “I’m _working_ on it.”

“Great, cool, brilliant. Oh hey! You heard from Gordon lately? Cause he’s not responding to me and in about three minutes this whole thing’s gonna hit the deck and he’s gonna be the meat in a spaceship _sandwich_ , John!”

“No one’s gonna be in a sandwich.”

“Yeah? Then _help me_!”

"Thunderbird three, take a breath." 

And he would, he really would, but he _can't_ . Every joint, every muscle in his body is locked tight and taunt from trying to hold Three steady against the ebb and flow of the atmospheric _disaster_ zone they've dropped into. Every shift of his craft had sent his brother's swinging like a pendulum and that -- that was _still_ better than whatever the hell is going on down there now.

"Whatever it is, it's enormous. Atmospheric disruption must have messed with our scans," John finally states what Alan can only describe as the _goddamn obvious_. "Looks like Fischler may not have been entirely truthful. Again."

"Yeah I _figured._ Gordon needs to detach. I can't pull that thing up, I can't pull _myself_ up."

John is silent, hands moving swiftly over controls Alan can't see and when he does speak, Alan kinda wishes he hadn't bothered.

"I can't gain remote access."

"You what?" Scott snaps across the line, sharp as whiplash. "What do you mean you _can't_."

"I mean I _can't_ ," John snaps back. "Gordon must still be on the controls, I can't override them."

"Why isn't he _responding_ then?"

"I don't _know_ , Scott. Perhaps the storm has knocked out his communications."

It's a positive sort of spin on his brothers silence, but it doesn't really help _Alan_ , who's now using his entire bodyweight to pull back against the drag of Gordon's oversized catch.

"We've gotta get him off of there _somehow_ ," he grits out. "This is _not_ a fun time, guys!"

"You could fire the ions? Rip Four off like an Elastoplast?" Scott suggests, but Alan scoffs.

"And barbecue her in the process?"

"She's shielded," Virgil points out. But then Virgil doesnt regularly experience the power of Three's engines in action.

"Yeah well, _Gordon's_ not! Plan B," Alan takes a deep breath before continuing.

"I could go EVA. Pull him out. It means losing Four but --"

"Unacceptable."

"It's only a ship, Scott. We can replace it."

"If you go EVA in that you'll be -- no. We can't replace you."

"Can't replace Gordon either!"

"I _know_ that, Alan!"

"Well _act like it_!"

Another voice, calmer this time. "I have a suggestion."

Alan can actually _hear_ Scott roll his eyes even from here. "Oh here we go."

John doesn't even acknowledge him, only says, "Go ahead, Eos."

"My inability to remote pilot Thunderbird Four is due to the pilot's hold on the grasping arm controls. There are other controls within the craft that I am able to access without difficulty."

This seems to pique Scott's interest at least. "Such as?"

"She is equipped with depth charges." She sounds smug. Snugger than usual even.

Alan gapes. "You want to blow him up?"

Eos seems to pause. "If that were to happen it would be an _unintended_ consequence."

"Uh huh. No. Plan D --"

John interrupts Scott's protests with a hasty, "I think it'll work."

"Excuse me?" 

Alan can see him moving again, flashes of blue flying from one side of the comm room to the other. "We only need to blow the arms, right? Just enough to release Four and Alan can pull her up and get out of there. I think it'll work."

Eos, possibly trying for gracious, misses and hits obnoxious. "Thank you, John."

He grimaces. "Don't thank me yet. If Four's been damaged then --"

He doesn't finish, doesn't need to, because they all know, don't they, what that would mean. Alan reeling in his brother's crippled ship, and whatever waits for him inside. Alan flying home. Alone. 

"What about Fischler's ship?" asks Virgil, and it's -- it's too _much_. Alan's hands are cramping in his gloves, his stomach roiling and still, still he can feel Three fighting against him, trying to throw herself into the morass below and take him, and Gordon, with her. 

"What _about_ it? I can't --" a noise escapes him that sounds threateningly close to a sob. "I _can't,_ you guys. _Please_."

No one says anything. John's hologram stills. Concentrates on something Alan can't see.

"There are no lifesigns on board, but the scans have been unreliable." Another far too long pause. "Still no response from Gordon."

"Scott? Scott what am I meant to do?"

He hates how small his voice is but he hates the silence more. It's deafening. Horrible. And when it does come through Virgil's voice is all wrong. Muffled. Pitched too low, like he's sharing a secret Alan doesn't want to hear.

"You can't save everyone. You can't save _anyone_ if you're dead, Allie."

He nods, frantic, unacknowledged tears running unchecked down his cheeks as he squeezes Three's controls tighter still.

"Okay. Okay. Eos?"

But it isn't Eos who responds. It's John. Calm and steady sounding enough, but Alan _knows_ John. He can hear the moment of hesitation, almost taste the bitterness of defeat, and oh, oh but he's grateful for it. 

"Remote launching depth charges in three, two, one…"

Alan squeezes his eyes shut, tight as he can against the tears and the dread and the guilt. "I'm sorry, Gordy. I'm so sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry --"

Behind closed eyelids, the universe burns white.


	3. Chapter 3

Gordon doesn't remember all that much about his mother these days, not really, only that her arms were soft and her laugh was pretty and the chill of her cheek when he'd kissed her goodbye. He doesn't remember the exact shade of her golden blonde hair, or her dark, watchful eyes. He doesn't remember her hand ever fitting in his, not the way it fits there now, skin almost translucent against dark blue.

"Sweetheart," she says, soft as a caress, her voice a whisper from a million miles, a million light years away. "Sweetheart, I'm so sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry."

And he thinks -- oh.

And he knows.

\---

Even without the help of the HUD John knows exactly whereabouts in Four the missile launch button sits. It's five inches to the right of Gordon's dominant hand, the words _Big Boom, No Touch!_ written in Virgil's neat print and taped over the top of it, the red ink worn pink from all the times Big Boom had been the best, the only, option.

He wonders if it had ever felt like a last resort to Gordon, the way it feels like one to him now.

Probably not.

No one’s ever had to tape warning notes to Five’s controls. No one’s ever _dared_.

His hand hovers over the display. Behind him Eos is running the odds, reeling off a constant litany of ever decreasing percentage points and they might be too small to be statistically significant, but every thousandth of a percentage brings John infinitesimally closer to a cliffedge of a choice he barely allows himself to comprehend.

It’s been a quarter of a century since John was the youngest, after all.

“John, delaying will not improve the odds of --”

“I know.” He stares at the glowing buttons, two lights blinking at the edge of his vision. Red and yellow. Yellow and red.

“John, you really must --”

 _“I know_ ,” he says. And does.

\---

It’s not the first time in his life that he’s opened his eyes to a wall of flame. It’s not even the first time this _month_. It’s probably -- definitely -- the worst.

A sheet of orange struck through with shards of metal spins past his viewscreen, has him ducking pointlessly in his seat. It’s moving too fast to avoid, moving too fast to identify, and his heart isn’t so much in his mouth as it is out there with it as he waits for the fire to dissipate. To see what’s left.

It takes about 3.7 seconds. It feels like a _lifetime_.

Below him the larger ship falls away, crippled, her side scorched black, and there’s a part of Alan, a tiny, emphatic, professional part, that hopes that John’s scans were correct -- that they haven’t just sent anyone to their death. The vastly larger part of him honestly just could not give a _fuck_.

His engines are still giving him everything they have and the sudden release has the umbilical steel that connects him to Gordon whipping up and around as such a rate that Alan has to throw Three into an evasive pattern before hauling back on the afterburners and ripping himself -- ripping both of them -- out of the atmosphere and back into the inky black. The horrible shuddering stops, and for a second Alan lifts his hands off the controls. Sits. Watches as the line curves gently back under Three’s belly. Waits.

The sight of Four still hanging from it, charred and crumpled but intact, _intact,_ has his heart spilling relief like bile as he launches himself down to the cargo bay, the reel already whining with the strain of pulling her in as he smashes at his comm.

“ _Gordon_! Gordon are you okay? I’m pulling you in, hang on -- Gordon? Can you hear me?”

“ _Alan, status_?”

He growls, muting Scott’s line with a slap, all his energies focused on Four’s limping approach.

“ _Thunderbird_ Three!”

He ignores them, Virgil and Scott. They can see his vitals. They know Three’s status.

They know because this was their idea, wasn’t it? All, _this is your mission, Alan,_ and they’d laughed at the way Gordon saluted, at his insouciant grin and _oh here we go again_ _with the demotion_ \-- but only Alan knows he was only ever half joking. _You’re the boss, Al._

Out here, he is. Out here, they’re all each other have.

“Gordon, come _in_.”

They can hear him.

Let them. 

Four crosses the threshold like a wounded animal, her blackened belly scraping horribly across the cargo bay floor as Alan shuts the doors, hits the life support. The plexiglass is a sooty mess, but the reinforcements have held and though he can’t see inside he can’t see any cracks. Positive. Good. Something.

Feedback squeals in his ear as Four’s systems automatically slave to Three’s and the comms come back online and he thinks -- he expects -- to hear a huff of laughter. A swear word. Six. 

_You could have warned me we were blast fishing Al, jeez_.

His heart trips in time to the static.

\---

Their best case scenario is twelve days, and that’s assuming Alan -- that Alan is able to pilot her the way they know he can, under the _circumstances_.

That’s Eos’s word, not John’s. Not Alan’s either. Alan’s words are --

But the fact is that listening is John’s job. Always. No matter how helpless, how tragic the case. No matter who might be at fault, no matter the language employed. No matter how much every word, every whimper cuts him deeper than bone, buries itself in his soul and sits there, heavy as lead and just as poisonous. 

He listens until there’s no need anymore. Until there’s no one left to hear.

John doesn’t mute the comm.

John won’t.

It’ll be twelve long, long days before Three reenters the atmosphere.

And John has to listen.


	4. Chapter 4

The recycled air in the cargo bay is so thick Alan almost chokes on it, his gloves too bulky, his boots too heavy as he scrambles up to Four’s entry port and turns his laser on the lock without a moment's hesitation. There’s a steady sort of hissing sound as the door cracks open and the two atmospheres seek an equilibrium, and this wouldn’t worry him  _ particularly _ if it weren’t for the blue and yellow helmet that rolls morosely past him to clatter to the floor.  _ Idiot _ . Why’s he taken his helmet off again and they’re in space and hasn’t he  _ told him _ \--

Whatever Alan has or has not told Gordon burns away to irrelevance as he finally manages to crawl into the cockpit. It’s not a large space at the best of times, but with Four’s nose battered and burnt it seems smaller, claustrophobic almost without the bright lights, without Gordon. It’s a tiny little space. There’s no reason it should take Alan as long to spot him as it does, only that --

Only that maybe, he doesn’t want to.

Doesn’t want to acknowledge the sight before him because -- because he’s seen this  _ before _ . Just once, but that had been enough. Way more than enough. He’s had a  _ lifetime’s  _ worth of seeing his brother lying still and bloodied in his own ship and -- shit. Shit, what’s happened to his  _ face _ ?

There’s blood, blood  _ everywhere _ , thick red streams that have run from closed, swollen eyes, dark clots at his throat, at the corner of his mouth and Alan -- Alan can’t help it. 

The noise he makes isn’t a scream, not quite, nor is it a moan. It’s something worse than that. Something darker and deeper that crawls up his throat, out of his mouth, fills the cockpit. Fills the commlines. Fills his ears and  _ he’s dead, isn’t he _ ? Gordon’s  _ dead _ .

“Alan Tracy, please  _ listen  _ to me!”

He hasn’t realised he’s biting his tongue until he releases it, spluttering iron and bile as Eos snaps at him again.

“Gordon Tracy is not  _ dead _ . He is injured. Commence triage.”

“Eos I --”

“Airway,” she says. “Breathing. Circula --”

“I  _ know _ ,” he hisses. “I -- okay. Okay.” He pulls off his gloves with trembling hands, allows himself two beats to swallow his terror, then -- he’s a  _ professional _ . It shouldn’t matter that he’s  _ crying _ .

He’s as gentle as he can be as he moves Gordon into the recovery position. The space is too cramped for it really, but he’s afraid to move him, afraid that the purple-red blotches in his cheeks and the heavy swelling of his eyelids point to some horrible head injury that Gordon won’t thank him for saving him from. Coma. Paralysis. Brain damage. He hovers his cheek over the bruised mouth and rests two shaking fingers against the carotid artery. Counts.

“57,” he says, hands already scrabbling for the med kit stowed away behind Gordon’s seat, “slightly elevated for Gordon, but -- where’s all the blood come from? And what the heck’s happened to his face?” Alan rocks back on his heels. “He’s not gonna be happy about that. At  _ all _ .”

“I cannot see how that would be a priority,” says Eos, and he almost, almost smiles.

“Sure you can’t. Can you --” he takes a breath then, realisation flooding through him. “John? John can you get a med scan?”

The comm hangs for a moment as though there’s a lag, before John’s voice rings out, terse and strained. 

“Biometrics suggest head trauma, subconjunctival haemorrhage, perforated eardrum right ear -- possible intracranial bleeding thanks to excessive negative G --”

“He’s had a  _ stroke _ ?”

“I’m just reading it out, Alan.” John’s voice is clipped tight, and normally Alan would understand, would sympathise, but Gordon’s just lying there and John’s just --

“He’s your  _ brother _ !”

“I am  _ aware _ of that, Thunderbird Three. Get the mobile scanner will you. I need -- I need Grandma to take a look.”

_ Grandma _ . 

Alan had muted Scott and Virgil in a fit of pique, but they won’t have muted him. They’ll have been listening and -- oh shit. Oh  _ shit _ .

He hits his comm. Winces. Waits.

Nothing happens. 

The Island,  _ Scott _ , is silent.

“Grandma?”

There’s a weird sort of scuffling sound, muffled voices, and then, clear as a bell, “Alan, sweetheart. I have no visual. Get the mobile scanner and talk me through.”

He’s already dug it out of the kit, already holding it above Gordon’s face, and -- “John thinks he’s had a stroke.”

“I know.”

“Did I --” The words catch in his throat, heavy with guilt. “Was it me? Did I do it?”

“I don’t know what you’re --”

The scanner buzzes into life and he holds it as close as he dares to Gordon’s bloodied hair, his swollen face. “Did  _ I do it _ ? The G forces -- Gordon’s not -- he’s not trained for it like me or John or, or  _ Scott _ \-- I didn’t -- I  _ forgot _ \--”

“Gordon knows what he’s doing, kiddo, now move the scanner toward the back of his -- yes like that, there’s a dear. You hold on now okay, give me a second. What do you see?”

Alan knows, in a vague, disconnected sort of way, that Grandma doesn’t actually  _ need  _ him to talk her through Gordon’s injuries. The med scan will have given her every detail down to the molecular level. But it’s something -- it’s something to  _ do _ while he waits for her verdict. While he waits to  _ know _ . 

“Swelling around the eyes, subcutaneous hematoma -- there’s blood around his mouth but his airway is clear. Heart rate is 57bpm.” He pauses. “He hasn’t moved, Grandma. Not once.”

“All right,” and it’s the funny thing about grandmas, and about Alan’s grandma in particular, that things might be about as far from alright as it’s possible to be and yet somehow she makes him believe her. “He hasn’t had a stroke, but he is concussed. He may have hit his head during the explosion. I assume he wasn’t wearing his helmet?”

“Yeah, you assume right.”

He feels his grandma’s sigh right down to his bones. “That boy will be the  _ death  _ of -- right, okay Alan. Poke him. Hard as you can.”

“Uh --” Alan looks down at his unconscious brother. “Where?”

“Wherever you think it’ll  _ hurt _ .”

“Jeez, Grandma. I’m telling him it was your idea.”

“You’ll be very welcome to, when you wake him up.”

The red-purple blotches spread across Gordon's face are the obvious target, but Alan can't  _ quite _ make himself touch them. Instead he sends out a silent plea for forgiveness, and drops his elbow right into his brother's crotch.

The reaction is blessedly immediate. Gordon arches, making a horrible sort of gasping, retching sound as he attempts to crawl away and Alan has to put both hands on his shoulders and  _ squeeze  _ before he manages to hurt himself even worse.

“Hey, hey Gordon, it’s okay. It’s me. You’re all right.” A sob escapes him, relief bubbling up behind his eyes. “You’re all right.”

“All right?" Gordon's voice is rough and unsteady but notably, infuriatingly,  _ Gordon.  _ "You -- in the -- I need that Alan!”

The sob warps into a wet little laugh. “Not what I heard.”

“For fuck’s sa -- what the hell happened.” Gordon's wild, frantic bloodshot eyes flick around the cockpit, never settling, never focussing and Alan's relief freezes in his chest, drops to his stomach like ice. “Turn on the -- turn on the lights will you?”

“What?” Alan waves the med scan light in front of eyes more red than brown, but he already knows, doesn't he. He knows and god. So does Gordon. His hands are plucking at Alan's uniform, at his wrists, and the fingers that finally grab hold of the med scanner are pale and clawed with fear. “What do you -- what do you mean turn on the lights? The lights are --”

Those eyes again, wide as they can be as swollen as they are, blood in the eyelashes. Pupils huge and black in a sea of red.

“Al," And it's a small sound, too small, little and sharp and horrible, a piece of grit that Alan knows he’ll be carrying around with him for the rest of his life. “Al, I can’t see.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All done! Thanks for the support guys! 23 prompts to go!

It's not -- it's not  _ great _ . Not even a little bit. Not at all. But Gordon's -- Gordon's faced worse, hasn't he? He can still swim, blinded. Still move. Still walk and talk and feel and touch and kiss -- it's been  _ worse _ .

Kinda.

"Alan?"

There's a noise, a echoey, scuffley, heavy sort of noise, like someone dragging anchor chains out of dry dock, and Gordon hasn't spent enough time on Three to know what it is, other than it's gotta be Alan. There's no one else here after all.

"Yeah?"

Alan sounds wrong too, all nasal and wet, and Gordon's blown his eardrum right out but he still recognises the misery behind the word. Still knows it's his job to fix it - even if it's his fault it’s there in the first place. Sorta. Maybe. 

He’s pretty sure that Alan’s not all that pleased at having him cluttering up his ‘bird, half deaf and blinded and with a head that feels fit to burst. He’s just kinda hazy on how he  _ got _ that way, if he’s honest. It's probably his own fault though. It usually is.

But there’s another nasty, throbbing ache that he  _ does _ happen to know he didn’t come by honestly.

"I'm still mad about the elbow."

The clattering pauses, and Gordon strains his one goodish ear until he hears the little huff of breath that means his little brother’s turned his attention toward him, until he’s sure Alan’s words are stained more irritated than sad.

"Don't you have more important things to worry about?"

Yes. No. Deflect. Wind him up because Gordon’s good at that. Wind him up and maybe -- just  _ maybe _ \-- it won’t hurt so much to shake his head. "Spoken like a true child."

Alan scoffs. "Just because you spend all your free time mooning over Lady Penelope doesn't mean the rest of us are as hopeless as you."

Gordon fakes a cry of outrage, but the gasp that follows is real. Three’s moving, swaying beneath him, and when Alan speaks he sounds further away, deeper and more muffled and Gordon pitches his own voice higher, louder, an attempt to compensate for something he can’t quite name. The clattering and banging starts up again and God, but his head hurts. 

"I am  _ sure _ you can't  _ possibly _ be referring to yourself there Alan Bartlett  _ Underage  _ Tracy?"

"Well I'm sure as hell not talking about John."

"You don't  _ know _ that. He's a dark horse, out in space all alone -- could be up to anything."

'Have you  _ met _ John?"

"He wears a super tight spacesuit."

"I'm not sure what you're trying to say but please,  _ don't _ ."

"They say it's always the quiet ones."

"That's only because they haven't met  _ you _ ."

"Poor souls." 

There’s a final sort of  _ slam _ sound, and Three launches herself forward with a shuddering, violent jolt. Unsecured and unsteady Gordon founders, his hands scrabbling for a grip on something  _ anything _ as Alan yelps from -- from  _ somewhere _ .

Oh God. Oh God, he can’t  _ see _ . He can’t  _ see _ and Alan --  _ Alan _ . 

If anything happens to Alan, he’s fucked.

If anything happens to Alan, he won’t even know.

“Gords? Oh crap Gordy I’m sorry, that was a bit -- I was swapping over Four’s power cells -- get us some extra -- extra kick. Too much kick, maybe. I’m sorry. I should have warned you -- I should --” Gordon feels the neoprene of his gloves being tugged and pulled and then, then there are two warm hands wrapped around his own. Bigger than the last time he’d held them, rougher, but still, unmistakably --

“Allie,” the childhood nickname’s half choked out, two syllables almost two too many for his pounding head, his frantic heart. “This is  _ shit _ .”

\---

“This is shit.”

“There aren’t tow trucks out there, Scott.” Virgil, of course, remains infuriatingly soothing even now. It's the habit of a lifetime and Scott wonders, sometimes, if it would be acceptable to smack him. “There’s no-one coming to help. When you’re in trouble that far out,  _ we’re it _ .”

“So that’s it then? We just sit and  _ watch _ ?”

The little red triangle that represents a solid 33% of Scott’s entire heart moves, achingly slowly, across the arc of space that now hangs in their living room. Above it John hovers, not down, not like he would be in any other family emergency, but still far above them all in Five. Still way,  _ way  _ too close, but Five can’t get there. Can't come to the rescue of the would-be rescuers. No one can.

“Believe me, Scott. I’ve run the figures, if there was any way --”

“Don’t give me the platitudes, John! I’m not some -- some weeping widow you can  _ fob off _ . This is Gordon and Alan, and we can’t just  _ leave  _ them out there!”

Virgil and John exchange a look, and Virgil sighs. The likelihood of that smack is increasing by the second.

“Grandma’s certain the blindness is only temporary, and they’re making good progress Scott. They’ll be home within a fortnight, and then you’ll be wishing they hadn’t got back so quick."

Scott spins on the spot, fear making his finger shake as he jams it into his brother’s chest. “What the hell are you trying to say, Virgil?”

“I’m not trying to say --”

“No, spit it out. You think this is no big deal, do you?”

Virgil holds up his hands, eyes wide. “I never --”

“Because this is my call. I sent them out there, and if -- if anything  _ else _ happens --”

“Scott. They’ll be okay. They will.”

Scott shakes his head, frantic. “And if they’re not? If Grandma’s wrong?”

“Don’t let her hear you say that."

“Virgil!” Scott crumples, collapsing onto the sofa with his head in his hands. “What  _ if _ .”

\---

Virgil doesn’t have an answer for Scott, but John does.

He’s run every conceivable outcome through every parameter he can think of, staying up on Five as a small, useless concession to the distance between older and younger, safe and wounded. It means he knows, now,  _ what if _ .

He’s figured it all out; what if Alan runs out of fuel, what if Gordon’s concussion takes a turn for the worse, what if Three sustained damage or a freak meteorite hits her engine core. He’s considered them all in every teeny, tiny, detail. Knows the likelihood down to a millionth of a percentage point and it ought to help, hadn’t it? Knowing how utterly unlikely such things are.

It doesn’t.

Not when he knows what would come next. The self loathing, the recriminations, the horrible, baffling concept of  _ Gordon _ , blinded. Hurt.  _ Worse. _ Gordon, who has always seemed the most determined to live life to the fullest of all of them, and for whom life has always been almost brutally, unfairly cruel.

He’d adapt, of course, if Grandma’s wrong. He’s that way inclined.

The numbers suggest that the rest of them would not.

Perhaps he’s being unfair on Virgil, really. Perhaps Virgil knows as well as John does the way the guilt would eat at them from the inside out. Does. Is. The way it burns in the fingertips that pressed the button, chokes the throats of those who said “ _ Go. _ ” Perhaps that’s why he’s letting Scott snap and snarl at him, John wouldn’t know. He’s always left that sort of thing to Virgil after all, but it seems like the sort of thing that Virgil would do.

Distract.

Reassure.

Offer hope.

John’s decent enough at the first two -- it’s sort of his  _ job _ after all -- but hope, hope rarely comes from the numbers and the numbers are where John puts his faith, sticks his certainty.

The numbers, he tells himself, don’t lie. Lying benefits no one. It’s just a sticking plaster, a minute or two of relief borrowed from the pain yet to come. He’s never really understood the  _ point _ of it before.

But then he opens his comm, opens the line, opens his mouth, and John -- John understands, now. 

Sightless eyes turn upward, a guess that doesn’t quite work, followed by a smile that’s far too broad turned bloodless and grey in the holographic light. 

“ _ Gordy. It’s John. You’re going to be okay.” _

“ _ Promise _ ?”

“ _ Promise _ .”

He has twelve days til the backlash


End file.
